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December 30, 2010
by the gentle author

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  1. December 30, 2015

    I can feel the steam, the rush, the eager impatience of the wet-footed customers standing guard til the “hot now” light goes on. (Forgive the intrusion of acquaintance with Krispy Kreme). I’ve met quite a few of those Hobart ogres myself, and a Sammy or two in different walks of life—all patient, all respected, all the best-there-is at the crafts which seemingly chose them. So many unsung, and it’s delightful that you’re singing Sammy.

    Until you got to the “hot beef,” I’d halfway been expecting each customer to walk in almost in genuflection, receiving that beigel reverently with both hands like taking hold of The Host. I tell you—your gift amazes me every time, and in this great busy-ness of much family and more celebrations, I come in at midnight and gobble down your words in great gulps—almost furtively grabbing them up between Good-Night-Love-You as the guests disappear upstairs, and my own sleep.

    And I got so wrapped up in the prose, I was almost startled when all that feast of colour and bright poured out, right there on the page. Looking at all those efficient hands, it’s hard not to imagine all the aura of yeast and bread and preposterone and to-the-point hunger in the air of such a bustling place.

    January, I promise myself, in that silly way we put off fun and duty alike, I’ll be snowbound, and it will be TIME for all the words of all the magical pens I’ve put off since before Thanksgiving.

    And THANK YOU for this wonderful gift and the prospect of all those waiting, beckoning archives.


    PS For some unknown reason, I read the entire piece with this totally unrelated tune echoing in my mind.

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